If I Can't Love Her
by je t'aime tellement
Summary: A retelling of Beauty and the Beast from both Belle and the Beast/Prince's point of view, with a twist. Adapted in parts from both movies and the original fairytale.
1. Prologue

If I Can't Love Her Prologue

Deep in the woods, far off from the beaten path, there was a castle, cold and dark, hidden from visitors. Magnificent but gothic, it would fill any viewers' eye with delight at the sheer opulence at first glance. But there had not been a single soul to intrude upon it for quite some time. And time had been unkind to it, one might have been able to imagine how lovely it once was but there was a sinister air hanging about it. The feeling lingered in the air, making the statutes and the turrets appear to be something less than beautiful, casting a long shadow.

There was only one true claim to beauty in the estate—the gardens. The gardens were exquisitely cared for—roses of every color filled the gardens, a sharp contrast to the almost medieval look to the castle. The red roses, the color of blood and rubies, gleamed even in the dying light, contrasted to the white ones, as pale as the moon. But there was one shadow; the tallest tower overlooked the garden, casting a shadow as long as it was dark over the garden. There in a high in a tower, if one had been a visitor, one might see the silhouette of someone or something in the window.

"There will never be a visitor here," he proclaimed softly, gazing out the window. The sky had darkened as night covered the sky, a dark starless night, how it reflected his own soul. A protesting voice was cut off with a sharp, "It has been many years and neither friend nor foe has traveled upon us yet. She did her work well." His voice turned bitter, as each word was poison on his tongue. "I expect that perhaps, we will have to content ourselves to live out the rest of our lives as we are." His head dropped as his voice lowered, taking on a dark, sad quality, "Leave me—I am poor company but you already knew that." He kept his back turned until he heard the sound of the door closing once more.

With a roar, he turned the table over, before covering his face, burying it in his hands and resisting the urge to cry out in frustration. He knew any more outbursts would draw the attention of his servants, who waited below for him. How cruel was fate? He'd never known until any and all hope had faded away and now he was simply left with resentment and anger—and sadness. What he would have given to go back to that day, he would have given all that he had to be something other than he was. And here he was punished for his sins again and again. And on top of that, he held the lives of those who served him in his grasp, how could she have believed that this was equitable but to curse those who worked for him when he was truly the one at fault. But she had proven to be as cruel as she was beautiful and faithful to her word.

He stalked over to a table, where in the center held a rose, a beautiful red rose, just beginning to wilt. A few petals lined the top of the table and the rose emanated a faint glow, magnified by the glass covering it. How he would long to reach over and touch it, how he longed to destroy the damned thing but he would not damn them all. He couldn't damn them all—his actions had already led to this and he was eternally sorry for them. He wondered if she was content with her actions, if she found them benefiting the crime.

"Perhaps, I do not deserve to a second chance." He said quietly, his eyes never leaving the rose. "It was foolish of me to think that perhaps I might have the opportunity…the chance…but it is not to be…" He turned away, looking into the mirror where all he could see was a creature so terrible that could hardly deserve to be treated with any kindness. He could not imagine that even if he was blessed with a visitor that he might be able to have them look beyond and see something, how could he ever imagine that they would be able to when he was unable to look past his own appearance.

"No beauty could me, no goodness improve me, no power on earth…" He sang brokenly. He had not realized how much he had relied upon hope until this very moment when he realized he had none. "No passion could reach me, no lesson could teach me…"

Several floors below, a male voice could be heard speaking to his companions. "I fear the master has given up all hope." "All is not lost, my love," a distinctly feminine voice replied. It cooed, "We cannot give up hope, it is all we have left." The male voice continued, "But it matters not. If we never have a visitor, then he will never have a chance—we will lose the chance…"

Unbeknownst to them, they did have a visitor this evening. Cruel as they thought her, she did not just abandon those who she cursed. She liked to check in from time to time—unseen by them—to see how he was faring, to see if he had changed. And she might be responsible for his change in outward appearance but she had simply brought out what was hidden within him. Her curses were always true and she did not like to think of herself as vindictive or unfair but even now, she wondered if she was fair to have extended his punishment to them. She had done it to teach him responsibility and to instill a certain amount of fear in him.

Silently, she made her way to the top of the tower and watched him sing. "No hope left within me." He really did have a remarkable voice, she decided listening to his song, maybe he spent his days composing or playing, she wondered idly, listening to him sing. She knew that before she had cursed him, he had devoted his life to pleasure and she knew that he had a certain fondness for the arts. She had never given it much thought, to be honest, but now as she watched him, she did wonder about the man whom she had cursed with no less then he deserved. Bitterly, he concluded, "Let the world be done with me."

As she listened to him and observed him once, she decided it was time. Perhaps, she had punished him enough. It was time to see, if in fact he was the same man-child who had no love in his heart or any kindness or indeed someone much better than before. This pitiful creature before her bore no resemblance to the arrogant young man of his youth but how is one to truly to know if he had changed? By sending someone who might restore that hope, she knew that everyone in the castle was lacking. And she might know just the girl to send.

With a thoughtful smile, she disappeared just as she came, unseen to the inhabitants and she reappeared outside the town nearby. Tomorrow, she would send him his final test. Should he be as changed as she might believe him, then perhaps his exterior might soon reflect what in his inner self. With that she disappeared form view, tomorrow would be the beginning of the end for him. May his stay in purgatory lead to either heaven or hell, but she would know once and for all if he had learned to see the beauty within.


	2. Chapter 1

As the sun rose, the beautiful rays of light illuminated the town. It was a picturesque town; each home and building seemed to be in symmetry, almost like something out of a storybook or a fairytale. And at the edge of the town, where there was room enough for a garden and a stable, lay a small but comfortable cottage. The family that resided in the cottage had once been a family of three.

* * *

The family had moved to the town when the child was still a babe in her mother's arms. The father had been something of an inventor in Paris and the mother had the luxury of being one of the most well-read women of her age. They had met in one of the many gardens in Paris. From then it was love at first sight, and the two wed months after they first met.

The man, named Maurice, had come from a moderately well-off family that had sparse connections to the nobility, but he was a younger son. Thus he had decided on a career to make his fortune and provide for his family. The woman, called Colette, had no fortune to speak of as her family was in trade but they had educated her with an education worthy of any princess or queen. Neither family could find serious fault with their choice of spouse, her lack of dowry notwithstanding.

Shortly after they married, they moved into a charming, if not slightly older, home on the outskirts of Paris, where they had a beautiful view of Notre Dame. It was there that Maurice worked on his inventions, but made his fortune mostly by painting pictures for the upper classes. One of his distant cousins, who had married a titled gentleman, had taken pity on her younger cousin, whom she remembered fondly from her youth and commissioned a painting or two from him. No one was as surprised as he when it turned out that he might be a success. Colette worked in her family's shop, unorthodox at the time, but they cared not for society's expectations.

A few years into their marriage, they were blessed with the news that they would be adding a new addition to their family. And months later they were blessed with a beautiful baby girl they named Belle. For she was as beautiful as her name promised even as an infant, and they loved her so. Less than a year after she was born, the plague swept through Paris, taking both their families. Maurice inherited his brother's fortune, but no sooner had the papers been signed he bundled his wife and his daughter away to a distant town called Villeneuve, deep in the country to try and save them from the illness that had cost them both their families.

It was there that the girl, Belle, learned to read in the comfort of her family's cottage. Educated by a mother who had learned the value of education from her own family, she taught her daughter the joys of reading and writing. And her father brought her to his workshop ever since she was a baby in her cradle. And still, when she was old enough to sit at an easel and a pianoforte, her father taught her about the arts, passing on his love of the arts to her. He told her stories that his parents had told him. They had several happy years, but the happy days could not last forever.

When Belle was not yet nine, her mother became ill. Her mother had always had a weak constitution and despite the idea that the hearty country air would be better for her, her lungs had weakened. She coughed constantly and tired easily. And the local doctor only confirmed what Maurice already understood, his wife was dying and there was nothing that he was able to do. He tried to gently prepare his daughter for the worst. Belle had taken the news as best a child could and she tried very hard to be strong for both her parents. She often read to her mother, a book of poetry that her mother claimed her father had wooed her with and though it was well worn, it was much beloved and a great comfort to her mother in her last days. When Colette died days later, the father and daughter grieved terribly but they found comfort in the thought that she would be well in heaven and looking down upon them.

And eventually the pain faded as most do, but her mother was never far from her thoughts. Her father spent more time on her education and devoted himself to his daughter like never before. And despite their loss, Belle enjoyed a very happy childhood. The bond between father and daughter was unlike any other in the village. And as Belle became an adult, there was one thing more than abundantly clear to her father; she had inherited her mother's beauty as well as her spirit.

Belle had matured from a pretty child into a beautiful young woman who inspired both admiration and jealousy. Girls in the village disliked her pretty brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with some unknown secret. They scoffed at her simple dress and mocked her general disdain for all finery. But secretly they admired her fine—aristocratic looks for she had the fine boned look of the nobility, unseen in the village, where most could claim no ties to the upper crust of society. Some even subtly tried to copy her dress, but it didn't seem to make any difference to the men of the village—they were attracted to her and not her dress.

To the boys and men of the village, she was considered quite the beauty. But most found it odd how she seemed to have such singular interests, such as reading or playing the pianoforte. She never seemed interested in flirting with any of the men in the village, she was very polite but her politeness never seemed to contain any hint of flirtation nor did she play the coquette. It was true that they might admire her comely looks but they often did not desire a future with a girl with her head stuck in a book. But ever oblivious, Belle was completely unaware of her admirers and her jealous peers.

* * *

And on this morning, it began very much like many of the others. At precisely eight, Belle exited her father's home, basket in hand. Smiling, she had tucked the book she was to return to the bookseller that morning and made her way to the center of town. Simply attired in her usual blue dress and white apron, she tied her hair back with a ribbon that matched her dress. As she made her way into the heart of town, she smiled as she greeted the baker. "Bonjour, monsieur."

"Bonjour, Belle. How are you?" He asked as Belle purchased a loaf of bread. "Fine, monsieur. I just finished reading the most wonderful book about a beanstalk and an ogre and a—" "That's nice." He cut her off before calling to his wife to bring the baguettes. Belle simply smiled and headed on her way. She made a few more purchases as she headed towards the bookshop.

"Ahh, Belle," the bookseller said when he saw her enter. "Good morning, sir. I've come to return the book I've borrowed," Belle replied. "Finished already?" He asked incredulously.

"Oh I couldn't put it down, have you got anything new?" Laughing he replied, "Not since yesterday."

"That's all right. I'll borrow…this one!" The bookseller looked at the book and replied, "That one? But you've read it twice."

"Well, it's my favorite! Far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise…" "If you like it all that much, it's yours!" "But sir," she protested. "I insist." He replied firmly. Belle offered him another smile before saying, "Thank you! Thank you very much!"

Belle found herself wandering around town once more, with her favorite book in hand. She couldn't help herself from sitting down at the fountain in the center of town. As she read through the pages, she found herself saying to only the sheep around her, "Oh, isn't this amazing? It's my favorite part because—you'll see. Here's where she meets Prince Charming, but she won't discover that it's him 'til chapter three!" And it was in moments like that she wished she had her mother there to be able to share in her love. Oblivious to the looks that she was attracting, she continued to read for a few minutes more before leaving to make her way through the rest of her errands.

"She rather odd, isn't she?" Three young women stood in the dressmaker's shop, at another fitting for new dresses. The dressmaker had just commented on how it was no wonder that her name meant beauty, as Belle had passed by the shop, ignoring the chaos around her. "It's a pity and a sin, she doesn't quite fit in." Another agreed as they watched her, they found her pretty but no prettier than themselves. Their vanity was their greatest sin, coupled with their silliness, they were never quite able to capture the attention of the man they admired most of all—Captain Gaston.

If Belle was the most beautiful woman in town, then Gaston was the most handsome man in town—and unlike Belle who was seemingly unaware of her prettiness, Gaston was very clearly aware that he was no man's equal. Tall, dark and handsome with an excellent sense of style and even higher sense of self-worth, he was the man that the three girls—and most others—swooned over, all except for one, the girl he desired the most. He used his war hero status to both awe women and intimidate men, but he was most beloved by the townspeople for saving the town during the war, which had occurred a few years prior. Basking in the delight of those who adored him, he was only made more arrogant by the presence of his oldest friend and faithful sidekick, Lefou.

Lefou was not what one would consider attractive, his physique would never compare to his friend's but he had a certain kindness and craftiness that his friend lacked. Some might even say he was a dumb as a fox. He was as quiet as Gaston was loud. And he had the distinction of being one of the only people who Gaston might listen to and he tried to exert his, limited as it may be, influence on his friend the best he could. And on this morning, as they rode into town with their kills, he was surprised to hear his friend say, "There she goes—my future wife. Belle is the most beautiful girl in the village, that makes her the best." Both had noticed her, petting a horse, and speaking with its owner from the hill which they were traveling down.

Protesting, Lefou said, "But she's so well read… And you're so athletically inclined." He could never picture the two of them together and happy. Gaston didn't read—even though he was able to and Belle had no interest in Gaston's accomplishments. She would never compliment him the way the others did and there was one thing Lefou understood about Gaston was that his ego needed stroking most of the time.

Gaston lamented, "Yes, but ever since the war, I've felt like I've been missing something. She's the only one who gives me that sense of—" "Je ne sais quoi?" Lefou offered. "I don't know what that means," Gaston replied as he urged his horse down the hill, Lefou dutifully trotting after him.

"Right from the moment, when I met her, saw her, I said she was gorgeous and I fell. Here in town, there's only she who's as beautiful as me. So I'm making plans to woo and marry Belle." He told Lefou as they disembarked from their mounts.

Gaston heard the squeals of three of his most ardent admirers; he refrained from rolling his eyes even though he was half tempted to do so. Their frank admiration and their willingness to make fools of themselves to catch his attention would have appealed to him once, but there was no challenge when something is freely offered. Instead, he found them both annoying and boring. As he turned and left the square, he heard Lefou tell—and not for the first time, "Not going to happen, ladies," as they pouted when he ignored them once more.

Gaston leisurely strolled towards the flower market, Lefou trailing behind him. "I'd like to purchase these," he informed the woman there, who offered him a smile as she arranged the bouquet. He couldn't help himself from telling her and anyone nearby, "Just watch, I'm going to make Belle my wife," with a conspiratorial wink. Though the villagers might all admire Gaston, even they were quite unsure if he would be able to win the hand of the woman that everyone was in agreement about—she was a funny girl, a beauty but a funny girl.

Gaston managed to catch up with Belle as she was beginning to return home. "Good morning, Belle," he offered with his most charming smile. Belle offered a smile in return as she politely replied, "Bonjour Gaston."

"Lovely book you have there," he said finally. Belle raised an eyebrow as she replied hesitatingly, "Have you read it?" "Well, no," Gaston admitted, "but I have read books before." She offered a small smile, how like Gaston, she thought privately. She was trying to think of an excuse to leave when she noticed the way he was looking at her as if he wished to say something more and that's when she noticed the flowers.

"These are for your table," he hastily thrust the flowers towards her, surprising her but she made no motion to accept the bouquet as pretty as it was while she pondered how it would be most polite to reject his offering. He made it rather easy for her when he said, "Shall I join you for dinner?"

So that was his angle, Belle thought, as she demurred, "Not tonight." "Busy?" He replied, almost hopefully, to which she said, "No, not busy." Before excusing herself with a smile, she hurried towards her house, leaving Gaston standing there with his flowers in his hand. Lefou approached him cautiously as he watched her figure fade from view.

"Moving on?" He asked hopefully, there was but a slim chance that Gaston would be willing to move on from Belle after her rejection. But if he knew Gaston, he would find her rejection more exciting and would only spur him on.

"No, Lefou," confirming Lefou's thoughts. "It's the one's that play hard to get that are the sweetest reward. That's what makes Belle so appealing. She's never made a fool of herself trying to gain my favor. What would you call that?" He asked, absentmindedly as he vowed to double his attempts to win her heart.

"Dignity," came Lefou's dry reply. "It's outrageously attractive, isn't it?" He countered as he thrust the flowers into Lefou's waiting hands. He would win Belle's hand, the challenge had always inspired him and Belle would be no different at the end of the day. After all, no one ever said no to Gaston. As he silently vowed to win her hand, so began another ordinary day in the provincial town of Villeneuve.

* * *

 _A/N: This will hopefully be novel length, with emphasis on character study. My apologies in advance for some of the slower moving parts._


	3. Chapter 2

"Papa," Belle called as she entered into their cottage. Upon hearing no response, Belle placed her basket down on the counter and decided that he was most likely in his workshop. Soon enough, she heard the sounds of her father in his workshop. Smiling to herself, she busied herself with fixing him a simple breakfast of bread and jam, she would take it to his workshop and like most mornings they would spend their breakfast together.

Carrying the tray, she didn't bother knocking on the door. Instead, she entered with a smile as she heard him humming some song, she couldn't quite make out. He was engrossed in a miniature music box. She realized it was her mother's when she noticed the top of the box, which had a rose made of pure gold sculpted on top of it. "Good morning, papa," Belle said as she set the tray down on the table, just out of his way as he looked up to greet her.

Her father was still a handsome man. Though his once blond hair had faded to gray, his blue eyes still laughed. But he had never even as much as looked at another woman since her mother passed, but if he had, Belle thought it would be quite easy for him to find another woman willing to share his life. Perhaps his own small fortune might make him even more appealing if the villagers knew about it. But was doubtful that anyone was really aware. Her father believed in judging a person's worth by their character and not their wealth. And he would never flaunt his good fortune.

Even still, he worked on some inventions but mostly painted to earn a modest income that was more than adequate for their simple life in the country. Every year, he traveled to a fair where he would sell some of the works and trinkets he created, which were not commissioned by his patrons in Paris. Her father had plans to leave today for the fair, which was no more than a half-days ride away and he would return tomorrow evening as per custom. Even though Belle was no longer a child, he still did not like to leave her alone for more than a night, if he could help it.

He smiled and rose to embrace her. "Good morning, my dear." She kissed his cheek as he beckoned her to sit down next to him. "I was just trying to fix your mother's box. The sound still isn't quite right." He said as he poured the tea for the two of them.

"It's still lovely and it reminds me of her." Her face took on a wistful look, "I can still remember her playing it for me when I was a little girl. I wasn't allowed to hold it unless I was sitting down."

"You were a spirited child," he laughed. "You must get it from me. But you were always so good with my workshop." He mused. "But your mother loved you dearly, my girl." Fiddling with the box, he said, "Your mother loved this music box. It was the first thing I ever bought her—for our first wedding anniversary."

"I never knew that she just told me it was very precious to her." Maurice busied himself by spreading jam on his bread. Belle took a sip of her tea as she looked at her father. He looked a little pale this morning. She wondered if a trip to the fair would be advisable, there would be other times.

"I think of her often. She would have been so proud, Belle, to see the woman that you have become." He replied. "You don't find me odd then, papa?" Belle couldn't help herself from asking.

"My daughter odd?" He turned to look at her and noticed her playing with her hands. And he reached over and gently took her hands in his to still their movements. "Where would you get an idea like that?"

Belle shrugged, "I don't know people talk." Her father reached over to lift her chin, with one hand. "This is a small village. Small minded, but safe, and even back in Paris, there were few people—let alone women—like you and your mother." He looked seriously at his daughter, his brow furrowed as he examined her face. Belle looked a little guarded but he did not detect anything that would give him real concern.

"Surely, my daughter, you can see that these people might just be a little envious of you?" Belle looked surprised and her father once again marveled at her modesty. "You've never noticed how some of the girls in the village have tried to copy your dress?"

"No," Belle replied startled. "My dear, others might not understand you but that does not make you odd. It makes you different—unique. Not unlike your mama and I guarantee that one day people will realize that." When she finally smiled again, he continued on, "Besides, I think you might already have an admirer who does not seem to be put off much by your 'oddness.'" Maurice was not immune to the looks he had seen the Captain shooting at his daughter. Though Gaston had not formally approached him yet about a courtship or for her hand, he expected he would soon.

Her face furrowed before she let out a small sigh and frowned. "Oh papa, I don't think he's for me." "Well he's certainly handsome," her father replied. Shaking her head, Belle countered, "Yes, he is—and he's a little a too aware of that. We could never…we could never make each other happy. He's so arrogant and I think there's a certain cruelty in him." Belle shuddered, imagining life as Madame Gaston.

"Well, be that as it may, I do not think I am ready to part with you, even to the most worthy gentlemen of all France—or the world." He declared and he was happy to hear that Belle did not seem interested in the Captain. He was not yet ready to part with his darling daughter. "He could be the King himself and I would not give him your hand—unless you wished it. But just as so, I believe that falling in love in a garden is the best place to begin a courtship." He winked at his daughter as she laughed.

"I agree, papa." She hesitated for just a second before asking, "Before you leave would you please tell me again about how you and mama met?" She blushed as her father raised a brow. "I know the story by heart by now, but still I love the way you tell it—like out of a fairytale."

Her father's eyes brightened—were those tears, Belle wasn't quite sure, it could have been a trick of the light. "Of course, my dear." He looked at the music box, "It was spring and we were in the Jardin des Tuileries. The weather was just beginning to warm; I had come to think about something so trivial I can hardly recall now. But I noticed the most beautiful girl sitting on the bench. She had brown hair and brown eyes and she was reading a book. The book was _Romeo and Juliet_ , a well-read copy, and I remember thinking interesting it was to see this girl sitting in the garden alone, just reading. So I gathered my courage and approached her." Laughing he said ruefully, "And your mother, being the smart, independent, willful woman that she was, engaged me in a debate of literature. I knew that it was then that I was falling in love with her." He sighed, "I offered to escort her home—I had no idea my own boldness back then—and she refused. But she gave me her copy of the book and her address and informed me that I could return it to her tomorrow at her parents' home."

Belle sighed, "It's all so wonderfully romantic. You and mama were so happy." She gathered the dishes and the teapot. "I hope that one day I might be as lucky as you and mama." She kissed her father's cheek as she stood. "But there are so many places I wish to go and so many things I would love to do before, I marry." She added as she exited the room.

Belle set the tray down in the kitchen and her father followed, a trunk of trinkets and paintings in his arms. Did he always look this tired, Belle asked herself as she offered to help him with the chest. But he simply waved her off with a smile as he headed out the door to hitch up the wagon to Philippe, their horse. Belle followed him with his satchel; she had made sure her father had packed adequately for his trip. She placed half the loaf of bread she had bought into his satchel along with some hard cheese.

For some strange reason, she felt apprehensive as he placed his chest into the wagon and reached for his satchel. He pulled her close after he placed it in the wagon and kissed her forehead tenderly. "Well, my dear, I must be off. What can I bring you from the fair?"

Belle replied, "A rose." He exclaimed, "Another one? Every year you ask for a rose." "And every year you bring one, papa," Belle smiled at him. Her father shook his head as he climbed into the seat of the wagon.

"If you're sure, then I shall see you tomorrow evening with the rose." As he started off, he heard his daughter call, "Be careful, papa. And I'll miss you." He waved his hat as he led the wagon out of the village and into the woods that would take him to fair.

Belle watched him until she could see him no more until he had simply disappeared into the woods. Trying to shake the feeling of apprehension, she walked back into the cottage, where she cleaned up their breakfast. She tidied the living room and headed towards her favorite room in the cottage—the library—carrying the gift from the bookseller.

Though their cottage was small, it was spacious. The cottage was big enough for a library, something that most families in town had neither use nor space for such frivolities. It was her favorite room. Beautifully decorated with her mother's old treasures. Her mother had a beautiful desk, finely wrought out of carved and painted wood. It looked like something that a fairy godmother would have created, painted with a scene that looked directly out of Shakespeare's _A Midsummer's Night Dream_. When she was younger, she told her mother she was sure it came from the fairy Queen, Tatiana. Her mother had a deep love of Shakespeare, something that they shared and she had spent many an evening in her daughter's room reading the comedies to her daughter.

She carefully opened the curtains, though faded one could still see the faint floral pattern in the light blue background, allowing the sun to stream in unencumbered. Blue had been her mother's favorite color and Belle wore it in memory of her. Her mother had loved the color so much that she wore blue on her wedding day; her father had painted a portrait of her that hung in his room. After she lost her mother when she was still a child, she would sit on her parents' bed and talk to her mother's portrait.

The library also had the advantage of having large enough windows that allowed her to be able to see if anyone would approach the cottage and she was lucky it faced east so there was little need for candles when she was reading if the day was sunny. And though Belle considered it a library, it was far smaller than any real library. It mostly contained her mother's collection of Shakespeare and a few poetry books, sparse compared to the bookseller's shop. She placed her newest book on one of the bookshelves—another thing her mother had brought with her to the village when they moved there.

Belle went to the desk and pulled out a leaf of paper, preparing to write a letter to her mother. As silly as it sounded, Belle tried to write to her mother at least once a week. She would tell her mother about her life and ask her for advice, but she would always seal the letters and keep them in her jewelry box. Similar to when she was a child talking to her mother's portrait; she believed that by writing to her mother that it was like her mother was still with her.

She was so engrossed in her project that she was startled when she heard a knock on her door. It drew her out of her daze. She hurriedly placed her letter back into the desk and straightened her dress. Wiping her hands clean of ink with a rag, she then smoothed her hair, recapturing a few strands that had escaped. Belle was unaccustomed to visitors, especially ones in the middle of the day, so she wondered who was at the door. And when she opened the door, she was both dismayed and intrigued to find Gaston waiting there, dressed in all his finery.


End file.
